


Knocking at death's door (for your love)

by Kiyonek



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Captain America: The First Avenger, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Pining Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Time Travel, Tony Stark is an angel of the death, reaper au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 19:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19257877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyonek/pseuds/Kiyonek
Summary: Angels are a myth. Even Catholic little Steve Rogers knows this.Then there is this angel called Tony that visits everytime he is sick. He isn't a normal angel, if they do exist.No.He is an angel of the death.





	Knocking at death's door (for your love)

The first time they meet, he was delirious in bed. His skin was heated and his head pounded like drums in his ears. Chills were running all over his body. Mouth tasting like sand, and eyes pickling with unshed tears. Probably because of all the sneezing and coughing he had made all day long. And, to top it all, his chest constricted with each breath he took, thanks to his asthmatic condition. Not for the first time Steve wondered if it would be better to just close his eyes and stop trying all together. 

Just relax and let sleep overwhelm him, let consciousness behind for once and for all. Forget about how the chicken soup he cooked tastes wrong, that the colors of the dawn have finally lead to darkness, that the chair at his bedside is cold, and that there is a lonely feeling in the silence falling upon his coffin. 

Yes, sleep sounds good. 

And probably he would have made it, if it wasn’t because of the sudden exclamation that startled him awake and thrown him right into another coughing fit in an attempt of pulling in a breath to calm his racing heart. 

“No! No! No! You are not supposed to die today! It isn’t scheduled! This shouldn’t be possible! You do look like one step out of the door, and you almost crossed it, but it is not your time. Fury will have my head if you accidentally rip out your own soul, so no dying today Cap!” 

The man… no, the being howering (like, actual floating) at his bedside was nothing like he has ever seen before. His features were prominent, with an angular and strong jaw with a peculiar designed beard. There was also dark hair, and dark eyes surrounded by thick eyelashes. His attire was weird, a black tunic of sorts, and his hands were wildly gesturing to a very worn and old looking book he could have been holding all this time. Steve thought he saw some kind of blade, but it may just be his delirious mind showing him things.

It was a crazy sight, after all, but also a very funny one. So, after sometime of staring dumbly, Steve laughed. Or at least he tried to, until another coughing fit hit in.

“Oh god! Don’t die! I am serious here, stop whatever you are doing with your lungs, just let them stay right where they are!”

It took some willpower to finally calm down and let out shallow, careful, little breaths, in a way of trying not to force his lungs too much. However, the pain was very much present, as well as the curious stranger that apparently wouldn’t let him fall into an infinite dreamless sleep. 

“W-who… Who are y-you?” it hurt to talk, but Steve wasn’t anything short of stubborn and a brick wall. 

The question seemed to startle the mysterious entity into silence. His face pale for a second, as if he just realized a mistake, but then he was back to talking a hundred words per second and Steve wondered if this pal knew that most of what he was saying made no sense at all, or at least he didn’t feel he had the mind power to process it all. 

The most that he understood was his name, Tony, that he is a reaper and that Steve’s name hasn’t showed up on his book so it shouldn’t be his day to die. 

“Anyway, if I leave you promise to not die in your sleep?”

How was he supposed to not do that? 

“I could try, but can’t promise” he was honest enough. 

Through a lightheaded daze Steve dreamed of a man taking over his ma’s place in that chair. Talking, strangely enough, about unicorns and joking about seeing death before you die but, “ let’s pretend we don’t know each other, you know, scary undeath consequences and all that.” 

So, he couldn’t help but ask…

“Did you take her? My mom…” 

“I-she, she wasn’t my responsibility. There are others in charge of those kind of… of those. We all have the same book, though.” 

“Was it her time?” she died a week ago on her way home. A normal case of theft, the police have said. She was cornered in an alley and Steve wondered if someone heard her pleas for help, if someone heard and just turned away. Bucky said that he shouldn’t think on it, that it will hurt more than what it already does. However, there are things Steve wishes to know. Not how it happened, no; but it is the closest way of finding answers that could fit somehow with the real questions he wants to make. This one was one of them. 

It took a few beats of silence. The man that called himself Tony looked away before answering. 

“Destiny takes whoever it wants, it is not about who deserves it, more like drawing a path to what needs to happen. She is in a better place now, souls like her, they get the best treatment.” 

Steve hung on those words and let the tears finally wet his face. It hurts, just as Bucky said it would, but maybe he did needed to hear that. And feeling a hand covering upon his own, he thought that maybe he was also meant to meet him. Whoever this strange man was.

Before he noticed, his eyelids closed and darkness claimed him.

 

***

 

The second time it happened, Steve was less disoriented with fever and more aware of the corporeal supernatural being he was witnessing on.

He thought it was all a dream, something brought up by his already delirious state in a way of making himself feel less lonely. Because, really, a handsome man that just happens to look like his type but with the added bonus of a supernatural aura and mysterious origin visiting him? It couldn’t be real by chance, it had to be in his head. He knew he had a very vivid imagination, it had helped him in obtaining a place in the newspaper as a comic artist after all (or so he tells himself rather optimistically) so it had to be it, right?

He told Bucky about that night, and being the best friend that he is, Bucky believed his delirious tell, going as far as being concerned that Steve was visited by the actual Death with a capital ‘D’ (“He wasn’t Death, Buck. More like some angel of death.” “That is practically the same, Stevie!” “Forget it, it wasn’t real, anyway.” “Real or not you are dreaming about death, and that is not fine.”) Bucky again proposed the idea of moving out of his late mother’s apartment and into some condo down the street with him. Since getting down a job on the docks, his best friend has been saving up and looking around for a place. 

Steve agreed, because his mother’s job as a nurse was what paid the rent, so Steve and his barely real job as a newspaper boy will not do. It was a reality that he needed to find another place soon, and he conceded that having a roommate to split up the cost will make it easier. 

Life, even with its changes, resumed back to normal, and Steve wondered if his mother’s death was really necessary in the great scheme of things. 

He was still bitter with the world at large, for his “destiny” as a sickly boy and many other things, but he managed to go forward, day by day. Remembering the angel’s face and his words of not being his time just yet—even if it was a dream, just that little idea of still being needed was enough to hold on—, he applied to art school and was accepted. They were fascinated by his very ethereal looking drawings of angels, and if he was biased no one was the wiser. Life wasn’t so bad, and it felt good to be alive.

Then, three months into his new life, Bucky’s tendencies kicked back in and he resumed his efforts in trying to get Steve a date. 

“Come on, Stevie. It will be you, me, and some pretty ladies.” 

“It didn’t work last time.”

“Because you don’t pull your part! You have to work with me, pal”

He didn’t, that is true, as well as the fact that gals aren’t what he is attracted to. He tried, back when he thought it was all in his head; that it was just because he hadn’t kissed anyone other than Bucky in some playful banter back when they were kids; but then there was Annie from the orphanage and Susan from school. 

Mind, Annie’s kiss was just a peek on the cheek and Susan’s a playful brush of lips, but he knew then that there wouldn’t be something more than that. Not only because they were friends, and obviously they wouldn’t like him that way with all his lankiness and short height; but also because he doesn’t feel something different in the air, none of the appreciation he has for a swell dressed man is present. 

It is wrong, he knows that, to be attracted to your pals. It was another of those things that he hates about himself, a different kind of sickness that day after day feels less like that. 

It is just how he is, and he has to deal with it. 

Sometimes, he wishes he could say it. Tell Bucky that he dreams of kissing him, or of kissing a dark shadow with sharp angles instead of curves; hard muscles instead of soft skin; all before waking up in the morning with a problem between his legs. But as things are, he can’t envision them having that kind of talk—because crushing on your best friend isn’t swell. 

Bucky likes gals all fine, and Steve can see the beauty in them but not feel the same sort of longing for a female body that his friend does. Maybe he just has to wait, wait for the right partner. However, Bucky is right in saying that he should do his part and try to connect. So, with a resigned sigh, he finally accepted.

As long as double dates went, at least this one wasn’t the worst one. Oh, the disappointment clearly shined on his date’s face just alright—probably expected to pass the evening with someone as tall and handsome as Buck—but at least she was gracious enough to talk to him anyway. It was fun, and it again brought up doubts about if it was really him or just the fact that after such an obvious rejection he can’t muster the will to try. 

“Can’t believe it! Only you hit it off with a lady just to part in friendly terms, what about a goodbye kiss?” They were already walking through the dimly lit street back to their shared apartment after accompanying their respective dates home.

Steve shrugged his shoulders, his hands inside the pockets of his cloak in a vain attempt to keep out the cold. It was already the last days of September, and the winds could get quite chilly at this time of the day. 

“She didn’t seem interested.”  _ Nobody is ever interested _ . Which also translates into: it wasn’t worth the effort. 

Bucky chastised him about being stubborn for the wrong things in life, and Steve responded that if that was the case then Bucky should have tried harder into maintaining his relationship with Janine. Jab at which his best friend made a wounded face and called him an insensitive punk, but both knew that it was a half hearted accusation. After all, that wasn’t the first time that one of Bucky’s relationships falls apart because of “seriousness”.

“I don’t know Steve, the wife, two kids, and a fence thing is more your style than mine.” 

It certainly was difficult to picture Bucky as a married man, and distantly Steve recalled that being his dream until life made sure that nobody would bother to know sick little him. 

As soon as they made it home, Bucky was out like a light. Steve knows he has been working overtime at the docks so he could save up for a nice pair of shoes. Money or not, they are still gentlemen after all—or so his friend liked to say. However, he should take more care of his health. 

Steve shook his head fondly at the light snores coming from the couch before heading to the kitchen. With his nerves gone and a relaxing feeling settling in, his stressed out body demanded some substance, and a quick snack before bed sounded nice. 

He never imagined he would find the strange man there.

He looked even more ethereal than the last time, sitting in nothing but air with a leg propped up while the other dangled over white tiles. The being wasn’t entirely giving him his back, but it sure felt like it with him more interested in the ancient book on his hands than in how Steve stopped short on the doorway. 

There was also a scythe, and dear god, how much Steve hoped it was all in his head right now. 

After long seconds, the book closed up with a snap that had Steve jumping on his spot from surprise. Then, after letting out a frustrated sigh, the most confusing and strange monologue Steve has ever heard began.

“Of course it had to be the fun-vee! Why not let Stark go BOOM with his own missile?! Let him see life after death in the form of undeath creepy cyclopaths with Dark Vader costumes! Make him take the red pill over the blue one! Why not send him to the thirties and make him stop idiots from killing themselves!” He let out a tired sigh this time, bringing a hand to the bridge of his nose, probably nursing a raising headache. “I should have not stepped on wonderland.”

“We are all mad here, but that is okay.” The blond quoted unconsciously, remembering with a flash of pain those nights as a kid when Sarah Rogers would sit at his bedside and read out loud Lewis Carroll’s Alice in wonderland. One book of very few they got to possess. A gift from a distant uncle all the way back in Ireland. Family he never met. 

The man startled and looked at the doorway with wide eyes. Steve could not help but notice in more detail how in fact his eyes seemed to be the right shade of chocolate, even with the little light creeping in from the lounge. 

He seemed so surprised in fact, that after letting out a curse he disappeared, as in thin air.

 

***

 

It wasn’t a dream, or him having too much imagination for his own good. The man was there. As the apparently forgotten book would suggest. 

It was thick, and heavy, like any normal book that looks like that would. He doesn’t know why he thought differently. Maybe because the owner wasn’t the most common pal he has ever met. 

Still, even if curiosity was a constant burn at his side, he didn’t open it. 

In part because if it was not a dream, then this was Death’s book; and as much as his friends called him for disregarding his own health, he still wants to live, thank you very much. For another part, there is also the fact that Sarah didn’t raise him like that. The book looked too important that snooping in would not be respectful. 

So, when Buck walked into his bedroom that morning, with the book in one hand and a coffee mug in the other while asking, “I didn’t know art class was so tough Stevie, do you really need to read this thing?”

Steve, preparing to taking a shower, answered as calmly as possible, “It is optional reading, I figured it would not hurt to be more prepared.”

Bucky squinted his eyes at him, eyeing him suspiciously, but merciful left the book aside on his desk before jumping on to the questioning, “You are shit at lying Steve, I don’t know why you try. Don’t lie to me, is this about a gal? Someone you want to impress?” 

The blond’s thoughts flashed back to last night, to those chocolate eyes framed by very thick eyelashes, and felt his face flame. 

“No!” Buck exclaimed with disbelief, “No way! There is someone!”

Steve looked away, rather disgruntled with his body’s ability to blush, and his rather probable crush that, if he was being honest, may have been going on for some time now. “And what if there is?”

“And what?! You little punk! Why didn't you tell me?! Am I painted in the wall?!” Buck sounded hurt, but the big smile on his face told a different story, “Who is she?”

More of a he than a she, but Steve answered truthfully, “I don’t know.”

“How you cannot?!”

The blond let himself fall back into the mattress, not minding the sharp bed springs hitting his back, and looked helplessly to the ceiling, “We have met two times, and only spoken once. I don’t know.” 


End file.
